What are You Doing New Year's?
by Lala Kate
Summary: Perhaps Christmas isn't so lonely when one finds the right person with whom to share it.


_So this is my contribution to the 2016 OQ Advent Calendar. I do hope you enjoy it, and Merry Christmas, Dear Ones! May your holiday season be blessed, and may 2017 treat us far better than 2016 did. Hugs to you all, and thanks for reading. :)_

* * *

She's warmer than usual.

She stretches her limbs, feeling the press of muscle and flesh against her backside, the weight of an arm half-draped over her waist, the heat of human breath tickling the back of her neck.

 _He's still here_ , she muses, not sure what to think about this development but somehow calmer than she would have been had he left. Her fingers trace the hair on his arm as her lips remember the feel of his scruff on her mouth, her jaw, her neck, her breasts.

God-she'd let him kiss her breasts.

 _Merry Christmas,_ she thinks to herself. The hollow pit in her stomach created from acutely missing her son expands as the very reason that brought this stranger into her bed reasserts itself with morning's intrusion. A tear slips from the corner of one eye and drips onto her pillow, and she sniffs as quietly as she can, trying not to wake the man she'd taken inside her body to ease a loneliness that had driven her to drink.

"Are you alright?"

His voice is husky and textured, still weighted with sleep and sex. His arm tightens around her middle, and she wonders at the gesture, what it means, if it means anything, and why exactly it should matter to her either way. But it does matter, she realizes, so she relaxes into him, feeling his exhale as he draws her into his body.

"Not really," she answers as he dots a kiss to her bare shoulder. His mouth is as warm as the rest of him.

"Regrets?" he asks. There is no hesitation in his question, which makes her wonder if he has several of his own. Could she blame him if he did?

"About last night?" she asks, laying her hand flat against his right arm. "No, oddly enough. You?"

He moves then, sliding over her as she turns to lie flat on the mattress until they are nose to nose. A small smile greets her just before he kisses her gently, and her arms slide around his neck, clinging on to the one thing that feels good this Christmas and holding on to it with trepidation.

"No," he breathes as his nose nuzzles hers. "Not a one." He then kisses the trail left by her tear before raising himself up on his elbows and tracing the spot with his thumb. Something splinters inside her then, something that belongs to Henry, and she closes her eyes as moisture pools, pressing stubbornly against her lids until she has to blink it away.

"You're missing your son."

She nods, her throat too thick for speech, and he continues to stroke her hair and temple with a tenderness that almost hurts.

"I miss mine, too."

This shared pain is what had brought them together last night, had led from him taking a seat beside her at one of the few bars open on Christmas Eve and buying her another whiskey sour to hesitant touches and stolen kisses. Night's chill prompted them to move from a nearly deserted street corner to warmer quarters indoors. Her apartment hadn't felt so empty when he'd walked inside it behind her, hadn't smelled so much of Henry when his scent invaded her nostrils, hadn't been so painfully silent as they'd moaned into each other and cried out each other's names.

"They'll be back soon," she states, her words as much for herself as they are for him. "Our boys."

"I know," he breathes, leaning onto one elbow as he moves to lie on his side. She turns so she's facing him, enjoying the solid feel of his legs as they bump up against her own under the comforter. His fingers caress her exposed arm, leaving goosebumps in their wake both inside and out, even as she keeps the comforter tugged over her breasts. "And I'm certain both of our boys are probably having the time of their lives."

His smile is tinged with pain, and she reaches out to touch his cheek, memorizing the texture of morning beard and warm skin.

"Without us," she murmurs, clearing her throat. "I'm sorry," she continues, watching as he winces at her words. "I didn't mean…"

He silences her with a kiss out of nowhere, one she accepts and opens herself to without hesitation, one that begins to push out the sting of missing children and holiday depression as hands begin to wonder and breaths begin to catch. He's on top of her again, and she welcomes his weight and heat, revels in the feel of him hardening against her belly as his mouth paints a vivid landscape across her skin. She's completely exposed to him now, and she doesn't fight it even as her stomach cinches instinctively.

"Stunning," he breathes, his lips hovering over the side of her right breast. "In every way."

Her legs open of their own accord, then he's inside her again, filling her as he had last night, setting a pace that suits them both, one less frantic than their first coupling but still in search of blessed oblivion.

It hits her seconds before it claims him, and she clasps onto him greedily as they ride out this reckless grasp for companionship, claiming it before reality can set in with loneliness right on its heels. For this moment, she's not alone, but filled and sated, somewhat raw and gloriously debauched, wanted and needed by at least one person in this world, even if she just learned his name last night.

"Robin," she whispers as he kisses her cheeks. His sweat tastes like salt and pine, and she samples him to her heart's content as he does the same with her.

"Regina," he mutters, and she shivers as her name hovers over his lips. His tone makes her feel beautiful, even now with her mussed hair, faded make-up, and scars that will never fade, and she claims his mouth again as he strokes her bare breasts. "Spend Christmas with me?"

The words make her tingle.

"At your place?" she asks, the words leaving her mouth before she can think them through.

"Sure," he returns. "Or here. Wherever you would be most comfortable." Her heart squeezes in several directions at once as he kisses her nose and lays his forehead on top of hers. "The thought of being alone today after having...this…being with you..."

She nods, knowing exactly what he's trying to say, and she feels his swallow as her hands cup his face.

"I know," she whispers. "And you can stay."

He closes his eyes then, and she sees a lone tear slide into the crease of his eye. His mouth moves to her palm, kissing it as she ghosts her thumb over his cheek.

"Thank you," he whispers. "For everything."

They lie quietly, touching, breathing, taking each other in.

"You really don't mind them, do you?"

Her question surprises him somewhat, but he then smiles and shakes his head.

"Your scars? God, no," he answers. "What sort of monster would I be if I did?"

Her lips move, but no words come out.

"Regina, those are battle wounds," he says. "Marks that show you're a fighter and that you've survived." He traces one line with the tip of his finger. "Be proud of what those scars represent, what they say about you, not worried that they detract from your beauty, because they don't."

She swallows hard, trying to think of something clever to say.

"Thank you." It's all she can manage at the moment.

"No. Thank you," he breathes, nudging her nose once again with his. They stare into each other a few more seconds, sorting emotions so tangled they dare not attempt to unravel them just yet. "Shall I fix us some breakfast?"

She smiles, thankful for the change in subject.

"You don't even know what's in my kitchen," she says, quirking her brows in his direction.

"You're a mother," he returns. "And a very fit woman. I daresay there is a decent variety to choose from in your refrigerator."

He smiles as she laughs and nods, rolling off of her slowly as he moves to sit up. She misses his warmth immediately and stops herself from reaching out to touch his back.

"How do you take your coffee?"

The question pulls her from her brief reverie, and she looks up at him as he shifts to again face her.

"Dark," she answers. "Cream-no sugar."

He nods but doesn't move, and she does reach out then, stroking the arm with the tattoo she found so intriguing last night.

"I'm not imposing on you, am I? Please tell me if I am."

His eyes are transparent, giving her full view of a soul as lonely and fractured as her own.

"No," she says. "You're not."

He kisses her again, a chaste, gentle thing that leaves her lips wanting more.

"So am I," he utters. "I think you saved me from myself last night, Regina. I've never been without Roland on Christmas."

His chin quivers as something inside of her cracks open.

"I know," she breathes, her own tears fresh again. "Trust me."

He wipes her cheek with his thumb, prompting her to kiss his palm, his hand, his mouth. He kisses her hair before pushing himself up and off of the bed, giving her a view of his backside that makes her breath hitch. He's beautiful, this man who just called her his savior, even though she knows that the exact opposite to be true. She would have drunk herself into oblivion had he not claimed the barstool beside her own, would have ridden home in a taxi to an apartment that would have only accentuated the fact that she was still alone until after the new year arrived.

Instead, she'd ridden him.

He slides on his boxers and t-shirt before turning once again to give her a small smile as she readjusts the blankets up and over her chest.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are, Regina?"

Her mouth goes dry.

"You don't, do you?"

He sits on the bedside and tucks a strand of wayward, nearly shoulder-length hair behind her ear, making her hold her breath as his fingers move downward to trace her shoulder.

"You are, you know," he utters before leaning down to kiss the tip of her nose. "Every inch of you. Every freckle, every curve, every scar. So beautiful it takes my breath away."

His hand move to where her breast hide beneath the comforter.

"Please believe that."

With that, he turns and makes his way towards the kitchen, leaving her reeling at his words.

Beautiful. He thinks she's beautiful.

God knows she thinks he's delicious, just as she knows she could become far too addicted to him all too fast. Maybe they're both still in a post-sex induced haze. After all, no man has seen her naked in over five years. She shivers at the thought, suddenly cold without him, and she turns to look at the picture sitting on her nightstand, one of her and Henry at the beach two summers ago when his freckles were pronounced, his grin was missing two teeth and her hair was far shorter. Her fingers trace the outline of the frame, and she wonders if he has a tan already, if he's brushing his teeth regularly, if he's having the time of his life, if he's even thought of her at all since boarding the Disney _Fantasy_.

God knows she's thought of him every second since he's been gone. Every second until Robin showed up, that is.

This thought pushes her out of the bed and towards the shower, where she revels under the caress of hot water and steam. A part of her feels renewed, somehow, as if discovering new skin born under unexpected touch. She washes between her legs, touching herself where he had earlier, allowing herself to rub and caress as she tried to remember how long it's been since she let someone know her so intimately. But it's when her fingers move to her nipples that her breath hitches, that tears begin to form as sensations she'd feared lost forever surprise her. Scars left by reconstructive surgery didn't faze him. Rather, he'd kissed them as he sought out where she still felt sensation and made love to her breasts with his mouth and hands.

It was the first time she'd been with anyone since her double mastectomy over five years ago.

 _What the hell am I doing?,_ she wonders, feeling things she shouldn't be feeling, wondering things nobody should wonder after a one night stand. But she doesn't want this to be a one time thing, she realizes, and her stomach clenches as she wonders what exactly he's thinking about her.

Had he sneaked out while she was in the shower?

The heady scent of coffee and bacon lures her into her robe and out of her bedroom, and she spies him standing beside her stove, spatula in hand as he cooks her breakfast. She can't remember the last time anyone cooked for her besides Henry's offerings of cereal and toast.

"What are you making?"

"Omelets," he says, giving her an appreciative once-over, wet hair and all. "You have an assortment of ingredients that would make any chef proud."

"I'll bet you say that to all the girls," she hums, and he pauses, tossing her a grin that borders on wicked.

"Only ones I choose to spend Christmas with," he states. Their eyes meet and lock. "I don't saute for just anyone, you know."

She watches as he stirs a mixture of chopped green onion and mushrooms in a skillet, and her stomach growls loud enough for the neighbors to hear. He smiles at that, as does she, yet she resists the urge to touch his arms again, arms she thinks she'd never tire of touching. She moves to the coffee pot instead, pouring some half and half into a mug before adding the Sumatran roast he'd brewed.

"It's perfect," she says after taking a sip. "Can I pour you some?"

"Please," he answers. "I take mine black."

It's all so easy, so domestic, yet new and uncertain, and she steadies her hand as she fills his mug, walking it over to him carefully.

"So that's where your chest hair comes from," she mutters, eliciting a small laugh from her personal chef as he pours a mixture of eggs into the skillet. He tosses in some feta cheese and Italian herbs before looking back at her.

"If you like my chest hair, I'll be certain to drink more."

Her cheeks heat.

"I think you know I like it," she dares, and he turns and lays down the spatula, drawing her into his arms and stroking her wet hair.

"I'm glad," he whispers. "Because I like everything about you, Regina. And I do mean everything."

Her heart begins to thud against her ribs, because God, she likes everything about him, too. It's only then she notices that he's plugged in the lights on her Christmas tree.

"I figured why not?" he says with a slight shrug, noticing the direction of her gaze. "It is Christmas morning, after all."

"That it is," she returns as she ghosts her fingers over his back, appreciating the feel of muscle beneath white cotton. "I hadn't planned on turning it on today, you know."

He has the decency to look slightly sheepish for a second or two.

"I didn't even put one up when I realized I wouldn't be seeing Roland," he admits, making her feel more for him than she already did. "Now I find that I'm regretting that decision. There's just something about a Christmas tree."

"Yes. There is." She pauses, tracing small circles on his back. "You should put it up before he comes to visit, you know. It will make everything more special for him."

"You're right," he sighs. "I have a train set I was going to have all set up around the tree and all over the family room to surprise him with for Christmas. When Marian told me she was planning to take him to Texas for the week because her brother was home on leave from Afghanistan…" He pauses, pulling her closer. "Well, I chucked the idea of a tree then and there."

White lights dance in her vision, twinkling merrily even as morning tries to creep in through the curtains.

"You were good to let him go without a fight," she says, making him chuckle.

"Who said I didn't fight?" he returns. "But Dan is a good guy, and Roland doesn't remember his uncle. They are his family, after all, and I know it's important for him to have this time with them. Marian even told me that next year she wouldn't fight me if I wanted to take him to spend Christmas with my parents in Ireland, and I may just take her up on that offer."

He's silent a few seconds, biting his lower lip.

"But it still hurts," she says.

"But it still hurts," he agrees. "I hope you don't mind that I turned on the lights."

"I don't mind," she tells him, her declaration greeted by a peek of those blasted dimples. "It actually reminds me of Henry-in a good way." She pauses to clear her throat. "When I was going through chemo and radiation, he begged me to leave the tree up, so we did. We left it up until I was well several treatments and two surgeries later. It was almost sad when we took it down, but a victory all the same." She swallows, inhaling deeply. "I've been cancer-free for five years now."

He turns and takes her hands within his, looking down at her with an intensity she could drown in.

"A huge victory, indeed," he states, making her feel warm all over.

"He never gave up hope," she says, blinking back a fresh onslaught of tears. "Even when I wanted to, Henry wouldn't. That's why he said he wanted to leave the tree up, so that when things looked darkest, all we had to do was turn on the lights. That's why…"

She stops, unable to muffle an unexpected sob.

"That's why you miss him so much," Robin states, and she nods, allowing him to draw her into his chest. "Those are wise words from a very wise young man," he breathes as he tilts her face upward. "I like your son very much already."

"I think he'd like you, too."

He smiles before returning his focus to the pan.

"I hope I get to meet him one day," he says. "I'd like you to meet Roland, too."

The look he gives her is unmistakable, and she smiles through damp cheeks, nodding in agreement. So this is shaping up to be more than a lonely Christmas hook-up for him, too. Good.

"I'd like that," she says, eliciting a smile from him. "I wonder what they're doing right now?"

He pauses long enough to look directly at her before feathering a kiss to her forehead and returning his attention to their breakfast.

"I'd say Roland has been up for hours by now, tearing through his gifts, leaving Christmas carnage in his wake."

She watches as his shoulders slump slightly.

"I know Marian's family is spoiling him," he continues. "God knows they don't get to see him on a regular basis, but having him so far away…Texas, of all places, it's just..."

He swallows hard, pausing to take a sip from the coffee she'd set down beside him.

"It hurts," she says, and he nods.

"Feels like I'm missing a part of myself, the part that makes Christmas worthwhile."

She takes another sip of coffee, praying it will burn away the thickness in her throat.

"I'm sorry," he whispers as her arms wrap around him from behind. "I know you're hurting every bit as much as I am." His hands rub her arms, and she presses into his back, feeling suddenly both very needy and vulnerable.

"Shh," she commands, and they just hold each other in this spoon-like position, her ear pressed into his spine, his stomach flexing beneath her arms. "This isn't a competition to see who misses their son the most."

He chuckles.

"Thank God for that. I'd be slipping vodka into the coffee if it were."

"No vodka-sorry," she returns. "But I do have some Bailey's in the fridge."

"Sounds promising," he says. "Perhaps with some hot chocolate later?"

 _Later_. God, she likes the sound of that.

"I don't know what happens Christmas morning on a Disney cruise," she says, her voice far less steady than she'd like. "But I'm certain Henry has already exchanged gifts with Emma and Killian."

She watches as he folds the omelet with skill, even with her arms still wrapped around his waist.

"You were incredibly generous to allow his birth mother to take him for Christmas, you know. Especially after all you've been through."

She shakes her head, not feeling at all generous as she lets go and moves to stand beside him.

"How could I say no? I'd be an ogre to deny him the opportunity to spend Christmas with Mickey Mouse."

He slides her omelet onto a plate just before flipping the bacon.

"No," he argues. "I can't imagine you ever being an ogre. Just an incredibly loving mother."

Her gaze falls to her bare feet, but he tips her chin back up so he can look her in the eyes. "I'm sorry he's not here with you today."

She nods, sniffing louder than she'd like as she realizes just how cold her toes have become.

"So am I."

Then they're kissing, absorbing as much of the other as they can until the bacon begins to pop.

"Don't let it burn," she manages, drawing back just enough to breathe.

"Are you always this bossy?" he teases, toying with a damp strand of hair.

"Always," she states. "Now let's eat."

They sit at the small bar that separates the kitchen from the family room, eating off of Christmas themed paper plates that feature the Abominable Snowman.

"This is good," she says, and he smiles as they toast each other with steaming mugs. "I may make you stay until dinner so you can cook for me again." He's silent at this, making her wonder if she's said something wrong.

"I'd like that, actually," he breathes. "Very much."

Her heart speeds up as he continues.

"Spending all day...perhaps another night with you."

The thought of making love to him again, of allowing him to kiss her in places he missed last night, of exploring him until he becomes putty in her hands, of watching his face as he comes inside of her...God, she's suddenly hot all over for this man.

"I'd like it, too," she says. "Just don't…"

She stops as he reaches out for her hand and rubs his thumb over her knuckles. Her heart flutters in her throat as her palms begin to sweat.

"Don't what, Regina?" She can't look away from him, so she inhales slowly, mustering courage as those blue eyes of his work her over. Her insides are trembling, and she wishes now that she could take the words back, but she can't, so she presses on.

"Don't disappear tomorrow."

Gentleness creases his eyes as a genuine smile breaks over his face, and he brings the hand he holds to his lips.

"No," he utters, his tone thick and broken. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Paper plates and napkins are thrown away as words melt into touches and touches morph into sighs. They make love on her sofa, his tongue taking her over the edge once before filling her and doing so again. Her body is humming in time with her soul as he grabs a nearby quilt and tugs it up and over them, her back pressed into his front as they lay quietly and gaze at the tree.

"I like that you top it with a pink ribbon," he says, the words rumbling in his chest deliciously. "Was that your idea or Henry's?"

"Henry's," she answers. "I put my foot down on pink lights, however. I don't actually like pink-much more of a red type of girl."

His chuckle tickles her spine, and she snuggles deeper into him.

"Roland likes the multi-colored lights," he muses as his finger stroke her hair. God only knows what it looks like now, damp and mussed from another round of sex. She feels his hand fist slightly, and she turns her head as best she can.

"He'll love it just as much whenever he sees it," she says. "The tree and the train. I should really put your tree up when you get home."

He smiles at this.

"To preserve the magic?" he questions. His mouth is just there, and she reaches out to touch it. He kisses her finger, drawing it into his mouth until she hums.

"As long as possible," she mutters before settling back into him and closing her eyes.

They awaken far later than they'd intended, careful not to fall off of the couch as they stretch and force themselves to get up. He borrows her shower as she washes the pan and utensils and brews another pot of coffee.

He emerges back into the kitchen ten minutes later, clad in his boxers and tee, all wet and wonderful underneath.

"I'm afraid I might smell a bit flowery," he states, walking in her direction. She chuckles, moving in to kiss and smell him for herself.

"Maybe a little," she says, reveling in the feel of damp skin and hair. He draws back and looks at her, his gaze travelling to a framed photo sitting on the counter.

"I love that picture," he says. "You and Henry by the tree holding boxes and wearing Santa hats."

"That was the day we took down the tree," she says. "The day I was pronounced cancer-free."

He swallows audibly.

"That's why you both look like you're over the moon," he whispers, stroking her lower back.

"And why I was as bald as a billiard ball," she adds. "I had to wear a scarf to keep that blasted Santa hat from falling down over my eyes."

He grins at this, reaching down to cup her face.

"You wore it well."

"Liar," she huffs, making him laugh. "Actually, my hair used to be curly, before it all fell out. When it grew back so much straighter, I wasn't quite sure how to style it-tooks some getting used to."

"So it changed?" he asks.

"Oh, yes, although not as much as some women's hair does after chemo. There are people whose hair actually changes color."

He strokes her hair at this, studying the rich, black color.

"But yours didn't?"

"No," she answers. "Same old black. Henry actually made me a book of drawings while we waited for it to grow, pictures of me with every color of hair imaginable. I think purple was his favorite."

He laughs, prompting her to grin.

"I can see you with purple hair, actually," he hums. "Very regal."

"Very something," she quips with a snort. "I'm not sure I'd call it regal."

They kiss again, their mouths now familiar with each other.

"So," he hums as they draw back slightly. "What would you and Henry be doing about now if he were here?"

She checks the clock over her shoulder.

"Probably playing our annual Christmas _Clue_ tournament," she says. "Are you game?

He bites that lower lip again, unleashing those dimples that just do things to her.

"Lead the way, my lady," he returns. She takes his hand and guides him to the game cabinet, pulling out the classic version of the board game that has been hers since childhood.

"Vintage is always better," he states as they set up the game on a small table.

"If you're calling me vintage, we're going to fight," she retorts. He laughs, placing the cards in appropriate stacks.

"If you're vintage, then I'm antique," he grins. "I believe those were my knees popping and cracking when we got up from the sofa."

"Mine make plenty of noise, too," she says. "Believe me."

They put their game pieces on the board and slide three cards into the solution envelope.

"Are you ready, Miss Scarlet?" he asks, leaning over the table in her direction.

"Hit me with your best shot, Mr. Green," she returns.

A few rounds of _Clue_ leads to gin rummy, gin rummy leads to poker, and they play for peanut M  & M's until her stomach starts to growl.

"Is it dinner time already?" he asks, and she nods, staring at a clock that announces it's 6:30 pm. "How did that happen?"

"I don't know," she says, stunned by how late it is and how little she's cried since their round of morning sex. "But I'm starving. You ready to get back to work?"

"You're using me for my culinary skills, aren't you?" he asks, tossing her a wounded expression.

"That and the orgasms," she states, making him spit hot chocolate out his nose. His phone then buzzes, and he pulls it out, his expression changing from playful to tender in a split second.

"Roland?" she asks, and he nods, his eyes filling. "Why don't you take it in my bedroom?"

He leans in to kiss her cheek, his cheerful _Hello, buddy!_ making her own heart cinch. She checks her phone, nearly crying herself when she sees three texts from her son.

 _Merry Christmas, Mom! I miss you!_

Two photos follow the message, one of Henry standing beside Donald Duck decked out as Santa and another of him and Emma being snuggled by Goofy. That should be her standing beside him, she thinks, not the woman who gave him up at birth.

 _Merry Christmas, Henry. I miss you more than I can say. It looks like you're having a great time._

She wipes her cheeks as his reply comes within seconds.

 _The cruise is awesome, but I missed our Clue tournament. I never want to be away from you at Christmas again. Okay?_

She smiles like she hasn't in days, feeling her heart swell up like the Grinch's. He misses her. He wants to be with her. God-he even misses their _Clue_ game.

 _Deal. And we'll play that tournament as soon as you get home. You're going down this year._

She bites her lip, waiting for his response, feeling him close now, as if he's here with her rather than an ocean away.

 _Not a chance, Mom. I always win. You know that._

 _Not this year, kiddo. I've been practicing._

She wonders what he'd say if he knew about her Christmas company, a man now talking with his missing son just as she's talking with hers. She'll find out soon enough, she thinks, especially if Robin is serious about the two of them meeting each other's children. She hopes that he is.

She pauses then, whispering words she needs her son to hear as she texts them.

 _I love you, Henry. So very much._

 _I love you, too, Mom._

His reply is instantaneous, and she holds the phone to her heart, sniffing as she closes her eyes and envisions her son. She sets her phone down face up so she can see if he texts again, but he doesn't, and she knows he's busy with Christmas festivities only Disney can dream up.

 _I miss you, Henry._

She isn't sure if she's just spoken aloud or not, but a shiver runs down her spine nonetheless, making her tingle all over. She pulls out a pot and fills it with water before retrieving some chicken breasts from the refrigerator and slicing them into strips.

"I thought I was in charge of dinner?"

His tone is heavier than before, his eyes red, nose slightly swollen.

"You needed time with Roland," she answers, tossing some butter into a skillet. "And after all, you did cook breakfast."

His arms open, and she steps into them, feeling his body relax muscle by muscle.

"How was it?" she asks. He pulls back a few inches and wipes his cheeks.

"Good," he states. "Roland is having a marvelous time with his cousins, and his grandparents…" He pauses, clearing his throat with effort. "His grandparents gave him a new train set."

Her chest constricts, and she pulls him back to her.

"I wanted to surprise him," he breathes, trying to steady his voice. "To give him something special, something I knew he wanted."

"The one from you will still be special," she states. "And it will stay with you-something he can play with when he's with dad."

He nods, but she knows he's disappointed, so she holds him tighter, not letting go until he does.

"So," he says. "What can I do to help with dinner?"

"You could toss a salad," she says. If he needs a distraction, she'll give him one. "I'll take care of the lemon chicken and pasta."

"Sounds delicious," he manages, his tone still somewhat broken.

"It will be," she assures him. "If you say otherwise, I'm kicking you out."

That finally gets a smile out of him.

Dinner is delicious, if she says so herself, and Robin helps himself to seconds as he praises her culinary skills.

"We should bake cookies," she says as they sip another glass of her favorite Pinot Noir.

"Is that something else you and Henry do?" he asks, smiling as she nods. "Bake cookies on Christmas?"

"We usually bake them on Christmas Eve," she says. "But I was somehow otherwise occupied last night."

He tosses her a wicked grin and a wink.

"Roland's actually a sucker for chocolate chip," he says, leaning back in his chair.

"Who isn't?" she says. "But chocolate chip is predictable. What's your favorite cookie?"

"Snickerdoodles," he admits with a shrug. "Yours?"

"Gingersnaps," she confesses. "And I happen to have the world's best gingersnap recipe."

"Is that so?" he challenges. "In that case, my lady, I suggest we get to work."

An hour later, the house smells of cinnamon, cloves and molasses, and he's washing the dishes as she slides cookies off of the baking sheet onto a rack to cool.

"They're hot," she admonishes as he reaches for one over her shoulder.

"I know," he says. "I like things hot."

He rubs her ass then, and she grins, allowing him to slide the warm cookie into her mouth and taking a bite.

"Delicious," she says as he wipes a crumb from her lips.

"You have no idea," he whispers, making her warmer than the cookie sheet as his fingers give her a squeeze.

She likes this man, likes him a lot, likes that he can take the shittiest Christmas she's had since adopting Henry and turn it into something special, something she'll be loathe to let go of come morning. She hopes he follows through, prays he calls or texts, half hating herself for becoming this attached so quickly.

They end up eating cookies and drinking spiked cocoa while watching _It's a Wonderful Life_ before retiring to her bed and making love at an unhurried, delicious pace. He feels like a lover now, not a hot hook-up, and she allows herself to believe what she wants as her second orgasm hits her with force.

She's nearly asleep when his whisper rouses her, his lips hovering just beside her ear as she leans further into him.

"Hmmm?" she manages, unable to force herself to open her eyes. He kisses her ear then, making her feel all gooey and wonderful before taking her breath away.

"I was just wondering," he says, his tone low and husky. "What are you doing New Years?"

She's awake at this, smiling to herself as she leans back to look at him, grabbing onto this second chance life has tossed her way with all she's worth.

"That depends," she hums, feeling lighter than she has in weeks. "What exactly did you have in mind?"


End file.
